


Le Plaisir

by zacharybosch



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (just go with it), 69 (Sex Position), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dinner, Jewelry, Kinkshaming IS my kINK, M/M, Make-up, Makeover, Messy Feelings, NSFW Art, Nail Polish, Perfume, Season/Series 02, Self-Denial, Shame, a french title to make it fancy, hannibal wears make-up, hashtag they flip, will graham kinkshames himself out of everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-05-28 00:07:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15036302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zacharybosch/pseuds/zacharybosch
Summary: “Do you paint your toenails as well?” Will turned and asked suddenly, meaning it to sound a little mocking, to make Hannibal straighten his spine and smooth a non-existent crease in his trousers and deftly change the subject.Instead, Hannibal just blinked slowly and inclined his head, ever accommodating, ever magnanimous. “Yes,” he said.“Oh.”The first hint of a smile tugged at Hannibal’s lips. “Would you like to see?”----Hannibal wears make-up. Will likes it and wants to do it too and proceeds to kinkshame himself over it very hard.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is completed and a chapter will be posted every sunday!
> 
> can i get a round of applause for my LONGEST FIC EVER?? endless thanks to [TheSeaVoices](https://theseavoices.tumblr.com/), whose initial prodding spurred me on to take this fic from a 2k fragmented mess into this 11k majesty (11k is _a lot_ for me ok), and similar endless thanks to [weconqueratdawn](http://weconqueratdawn.tumblr.com), [fragile-teacup](http://fragile-teacup.tumblr.com/), and [aviran007](http://aviran007.tumblr.com), whose cheerleading helped keep my momentum going.
> 
> shout out to the random man i see on the train to work sometimes, who wears smart trousers, paisley shirts, and glittery green nail polish. you inadvertently inspired this whole damn fic. extra shout out to H&M who do the best nail polish ever - every colour described or named in this fic is an H&M colour that i own and love (but we'll pretend hannibal got them from somewhere much fancier)
> 
> [here is a playlist of songs](https://open.spotify.com/user/11182559597/playlist/2hSYIuIc8VyhG2Gy8QVjxj?si=R83hAjI7RuadAhzI879H4A) i was vibing to while writing this, i promise it's not just pop music (promise)

Hannibal was accustomed to a lot of Will’s peculiar moods, and indeed found many of them charming where others might find them abrasive. Since being released from prison, Will’s moods had begun to change; where before he had a tendency to become bright and urgent, his distress painting itself in sharp, jerky strokes across Hannibal’s mind, Will now became ponderous, talking in slow circles around things he couldn’t or wouldn’t name. He had some harder edges, too, newly formed or newly resurrected, and he seemed to want to sharpen their points on Hannibal.

Will stood by the window, staring out at nothing in particular but wanting to present his back to Hannibal for no real reason other than that he could. It was strange to be back in therapy again, and though the office and the people within were ostensibly the same, he couldn’t shake the feeling that everything had been replaced by careful copies. It made him want to punch through the glass pane.

He opted instead for a softer target. He’d never questioned before why Hannibal wore nail polish, make-up, or the kinds of dainty necklaces that he’d never seen on a man; in fact, from the day they first met, Will ignored it as hard as he could. Looking would mean acknowledging, and acknowledging would mean admitting it looked good. 

“Do you paint your toenails as well?” Will turned and asked suddenly, meaning it to sound a little mocking, to make Hannibal straighten his spine and smooth a non-existent crease in his trousers and deftly change the subject.

Instead, Hannibal just blinked slowly and inclined his head, ever accommodating, ever magnanimous. “Yes,” he said.

“Oh.”

The first hint of a smile tugged at Hannibal’s lips. “Would you like to see?”

Will sat heavily back in his seat and began mentally berating himself. There was no point trying to poke at Hannibal. He was a man with feathers that were entirely impossible to ruffle. “I think you want to show me regardless of whether or not I’d _like to see_ ,” he said, trying for scathing, or disinterested, or _something_.

Hannibal stayed perfectly still in his chair, content to wait and enjoy the warm anticipation filling his body. He wouldn’t give any helpful prompt. Will had to be forthright.

Will huffed and looked away. “Go ahead. Show me.”

That feline smile again, spreading slowly over Hannibal’s face like oil on tarmac, warm and knowing and entirely too self-satisfied. It was infuriating, all the more so because it made Will feel quietly triumphant. He’d never seen Hannibal smile like that at anyone else, and it was a smile that he jealously wanted to keep to himself.

Hannibal’s ankles were delicate, fine-boned things. He never looked outright bulky, but Hannibal’s suits gave him an appearance of heft and solidity that Will was quickly learning wasn’t entirely accurate. The first suggestion of curve into calf muscle disappeared underneath woolen plaid, and Will had the rising urge to reach out his hand, skim his fingers over bone and tendon, up and up until he met the soft hollow of skin at the back of the knee, and the first enticing swell of thigh.

His toenails were painted the same taupe colour as his fingernails, albeit without the tiny gold flecks that occasionally caught the light. Will liked the colour, and it was precisely because he liked the colour that he said, “Why bother painting them if you’re going to use such a dull colour? Seems a little flat for you.”

“This is the only body I will inhabit in my lifetime, and I intend to enjoy the experience as fully as possible. It pleases me to paint my nails, and it pleases me to use such a colour to do so. It’s quite beautiful, if you take the time to admire the shade properly.” Hannibal made no move to cover his feet again, instead folding his socks into a neat square and tucking it into his shoes. “And I admit, I also derive some pleasure from the reaction of people who are discomfited by it.”

“I should’ve known you get a kick out of making people feel uncomfortable. Seems petty, even for you.”

“I don’t _make_ people feel anything, Will. I can only present the truth of myself, and how you or anyone else feels about it is entirely beyond my control. You are in the unique position of being able to slip inside my skin if you so choose, and perhaps you should. It may help ease some of your discomfort.”

“You conceal every selfish act behind a veil of benevolence,” Will said. He barely had a grip on the conversation to begin with and now he was clutching at straws. “If you even allowed me inside your head, you wouldn’t let me leave again.”

“Frightened that you might want to stay anyway?”

Will stood abruptly from his chair and paced across the room to where his coat hung on a wooden stand in the corner. He dug his fingers into the fabric, but paused before he lifted it from the hook. Hannibal’s scent was strong here, amber and sandalwood and musk having transferred from skin to coat, from coat to wood, from months and years of existing in this space. Will closed his eyes and breathed. He would stay if he could. He would crawl inside Hannibal Lecter’s skin and never leave.

“I’m going now. Goodnight, doctor.”

***

_sorry for storming out yesterday_  
_not that i really stormed_  
_just left quietly_  
_but you get what i mean_  


Hannibal took a full half-hour to text back, which was more effective at making Will feel chastised than he wanted to admit.

_Apology accepted._

_youre right, you don’t force me to feel weird about the nail polish thing, it’s my own hang up_  
_i should probably work on it_  


_Fear stems from the unknown. Perhaps I should introduce you to my collection more fully, so you might become more familiar with the idea._

_you’re inviting me over to look at your nail polish?_  
_are we gonna braid each other’s hair and gossip about boys as well_  


_If you like._

They had dinner first, lighter than Hannibal’s usual fare and over in half the time. As Hannibal took their empty plates to the kitchen, Will seriously considered bolting for the door. 

How would Hannibal do it? Would he come back to the dining room with a handful of nail polishes in a basket? Would they retire to the study for a presentation on make-up techniques? 

The reality was, as usual, nothing like what Will had prepared for, and everything that he had secretly hoped and feared it would be. They were going upstairs, and Hannibal lead the way, Will focusing intently on the smooth glide of his manicured fingers on the bannister. He was wearing a deep shimmering teal, the colour of the ocean.

Hannibal’s bedroom had a limited colour palette, but was a feast of textures. Warm, smooth wood on the walls and floor, leather on the chairs, velvet on the bed, satin on the pillows, glass on the table tops. Hannibal had expected that Will would want to stop and look and touch; it was not lost on him how often Will had moved around his office, running his hands over things, picking up objects not to examine but just to hold and feel. Understandable perhaps that Will favoured his sense of touch, his other senses having taken him to dark places in the past.

Seeing Will in this space was quietly thrilling. It was a tantalizing opening act before the introduction to the dressing room, and Hannibal committed to memory each unguarded moment of curiosity, each tentative brush of fingertips.

By this point, Will was more pliable than he could ever remember feeling, and it was all too easy to let Hannibal put a hand against the small of his back, murmur _Through here, please_ , and guide him into the dressing room.

Hannibal’s collection of nail polish was housed in a large mahogany cabinet with glass doors. There was one shelf per colour, neatly lined up light to dark in as close to a perfect shade gradient as could be managed. There was matte finish, gloss, shimmer. There were special nooks for two-tone polishes. A few very select glitter polishes. Practical items were tucked away at the bottom; base coats, top coats, cuticle lotion, tools for trimming and shaping and acetone wipes for removal. 

Will opened the cabinet doors and trailed his fingers delicately along the top shelf, ghosting over the fronts of the bottles as if touching the colours could make him understand Hannibal’s desire for them. The shades were named things like _Jewel Beetle_ , _Witching Hour_ , _Marquise_ , and it made Will’s head swim. He could see it clearly: Hannibal standing before the glass-fronted cabinet, hands clasped behind his back in quiet contemplation, not opening the doors until he’d settled on a colour. The satisfying clack of tiny bottles as he took one out, reconsidered, and replaced it for another. Then the ritual of preparation and application, oils and creams, clippers and files. Would he sit here naked? In a towel, a robe? Has he ever spilled a drop on cashmere sweaters, silk shirts?

“I’ve never seen you wear most of these,” Will said, and his voice sounded strange in his ears. Gently curious, almost dreamy.

Hannibal pitched his own voice to match, quiet and slightly conspiratory, soft edges for this space full of delicate things. “There are certain shades I find to be more flattering. Some bottles I am yet to open.”

“But you have to have a full colour spectrum just in case.”

“It pleases me simply to possess some of these colours, with no intention of actually wearing them.”

“Figures. I like this one,” Will said, halting his restless fingers in front of a peculiar green-gold.

“ _Last Queen of Egypt_. The names can be a little gauche.”

Will felt like he was slowly vibrating out of his skin. His fingers knocked against the bottles and upset their perfect line with a noisy clatter. It broke the spell-like hush that had enveloped them in the dressing room, and Will’s body suddenly felt simultaneously too large and too small, ungainly and difficult to control. With an effort, he took a step away from the cabinet.

“Show me something else,” Will said, wiping a clammy hand against his trousers.

Hannibal led him to a small curtained alcove on the far side of the room. Behind thick velvet drapes the same steely-blue as his bedding, there sat an elaborately laid-out dressing table. Will moved forward involuntarily, drawn in by the glint of light on glass bottles and the mother-of-pearl inlay on the back of a hairbrush.

It was different to the nail polish cabinet, more personal. This was where Hannibal sat in the early mornings and prepared a version of himself to present to the world, or late at night, wiping the slate clean. The table itself was all flowing lines and gilt edges, with dozens of secret nooks and drawers, no doubt containing cosmetics that cost more than Will’s car. Bottles of perfume were displayed across the surface of the table; tall crystal monstrosities sitting back against the mirror, beautiful and intimidating; and further forward, squat little molded glass things, with tasselled atomizers like tiny clouds.

“What’s all this?” asked Will, greedy hands already beginning to roam over bottle tops.

“You know what it is, Will.”

“It’s, ah, perfume.”

“Does this surprise you?” 

“I just… You don’t smell-- _flowery_.”

“You’ve been smelling me?” Hannibal said, warm and pleased, more statement than question.

“Just returning the favour,” Will bit out, shoving himself away from the dressing table. He was liable to start wearing tracks in the carpet if he carried on being so skittish.

Hannibal contemplated the dressing table for a moment, before selecting a large bottle of rich amber liquid with a heavy glass stopper, a scent that he had been wearing for most of the day.

“While certain floral scents suit other people quite well, I find them distasteful on myself. Here,” Hannibal said, putting the bottle into Will’s hands before he could refuse.

Will removed the stopper and took a cautious sniff. Straight from the bottle, it was thick and overpowering in his nose, more like hard liquor than perfume. Hannibal watched Will grimace, and thrilled a little at what he was about to do.

“That’s a lot.”

“Directly from the bottle, yes. Allow me,” Hannibal slipped bottle and stopper from Will’s fingers and placed them with a satisfying click on the dressing table. He raised his right arm half way to Will’s face, wrist upwards, sleeve tugged slightly back to reveal the first tracery of vein. “If I may?”

Will flinched slightly, but then nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Hannibal took a step closer, crowding into Will’s space, and pulled his sleeve further back. The scar was still tender and pink, an obscene slash of colour against the white of his skin. Will’s eyes locked on the mark, _his_ mark, and his breath came quick as Hannibal raised his wrist higher. Will leaned in the last few inches, eyelids dropping half-closed as he breathed in the scent of perfume.

“It smells,” Will began, breath hot and close against Hannibal’s wrist, “warm. Spicy. Soft.”

“The scent evolves as it sits on the skin,” Hannibal said, not moving away. “What you smelled in the bottle was only the opening notes.”

“I like it.”

“You can have it.”

That had evidently been the wrong thing to say, as Will’s eyes flew open and he beat a hasty retreat towards the door, away from Hannibal and his outstretched hand. He had allowed himself to smell Hannibal’s wrist for one small moment of unguarded pleasure, but now he stared intently at nothing on the wall and said, “It’s late. I should go.”

It was a blip, nothing more, although Hannibal was faintly annoyed to have missed his mark with Will yet again. It was exciting to be unable to predict Will, that much was true, but this particular situation was still too unstable to leave to chance. Will was flighty and full of contradiction, at once both pursuing and rejecting, manipulating and begging to be manipulated. 

Perhaps Hannibal should’ve said, _You will take it_ , instead of _You can have it._ No room for argument. Let Will have without admitting to his want.

Because why else would Will deny himself, why else would he want Hannibal to force him to indulge, if not for shame at his own desires? He appeared to have no problem indulging himself in all other areas of his life; whether it was desire for solitude or hunger for revenge, Will sated himself by whatever means necessary. A farmhouse in the woods and Hannibal’s toes scrabbling for purchase on an upturned bucket weren’t so different, both being things that Will unashamedly took for himself.

Hannibal put the bottle of perfume back in its rightful place on the dressing table, and ushered Will out of the room.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“This feels like high school,” said Will. “The cool girl invites the new girl to her house and makes her over. The new girl doesn’t know if she’s making a friend or being sized up for the butcher block.”_  
>  \---  
> Will does some things and Hannibal is honestly just having the best time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here is chapter 2!! i hope you enjoy immensely~

Three weeks later, intense, draining regret hit Will as he rang Hannibal’s doorbell. Too late to run now. He had asked to be invited round and he had asked for dinner and now he was asking for _this_. Hannibal could probably smell him already; cloying shame, the cold snap of sick excitement, and far, far too much perfume.

Will had purchased the perfume online, after what he told himself was an innocent, idle search just to see what was out there. The website purported it to be a unisex scent, but their target demographic was obvious and there was no section of products specifically for men. Will picked it because it claimed an earthy, woody undertone, how he might smell if he wasn’t perpetually soaked in nightmare sweat and covered in dog hair. Something a little too elegant to have a ship on the bottle.

_Just don’t buy the perfume, you don’t need it_ , argued the part of his brain that was still thinking logically. _But I have to_ , the other, larger part would say, no clue as to why but endlessly successful in its simple reasoning.

Opening the package had been an experience. Tiny boxes within boxes, packed with soft tissue paper and tied with grosgrain ribbons. Embossed cards featuring information about storage and application. Miniature vials containing sample drops of other scents. And the product itself, an unassuming glass bottle with a screw cap, short and unadorned but for the delicately hand-lettered label. Will could perhaps understand the appeal of this part, unwrapping and possessing something small and secret and beautiful.

Owning the perfume was enough, until it wasn’t. The bottle sat in the back of Will’s sock drawer and he thought about it constantly, until he imagined that he could smell it seeping out of the drawer, suffusing his clothes and the floorboards of his house. He began opening the bottle when he got home in the evenings, just for a brief smell. It was too strong straight out of the bottle, so he left it on top of the dresser with the cap unscrewed, and if he walked past the dresser more often than necessary in the hope that some of the smell might accidentally settle on him, he didn’t acknowledge it.

Leaving the open bottle on top of the dresser for an evening became leaving it all day, became moving it about the house with him, became dabbing a tentative drop on his wrist before bed. He would lay awake half the night, smelling his skin, rubbing his nose into it, running his hands over his body until the scent had all but vanished.

Then he would scrub his body particularly hard in the shower the next morning.

Now Will stood on Hannibal’s doorstep, playing over and over in his head the slow inhale of breath followed by the dark delight that would alight in Hannibal’s eyes when he opened the door and _knew_. The fading chime of the doorbell echoed hollowly between his ears while he waited.

Hannibal opened the door, and there it was: a brief moment to indulge in the scent and understand what it meant, eyes dancing over Will’s body, and then the customary greeting.

“Hello Will. Please, come in.”

Hannibal was too delighted to feign indifference. Will’s message had been loud and clear: _Here I am, dressed and scented and presented on your doorstep. Take me by the hand and tell me what to do next._ He was free with his hands, letting them linger as he took Will’s coat, removing non-existent fluff from his hair, adjusting his shirt collar, and Will let him do it all.

As he escorted Will through to the dining room, Hannibal quietly and swiftly altered his dessert plans, leafing through menu cards and pantry stock in his mind. He’d intended to serve more of the bread pudding that he and Will had shared the night he had kissed Alana, a warm and comforting dish that Will had accepted so submissively into his hands, but the evening now required something a little more invigorating, to set neurons firing and nerves tingling.

He would serve macerated red berries, sweet and sharp, to burst on Will’s tongue and stain colour on his lips; cream, whipped enough to be firm, but not so firm that it wouldn’t still drip down from berry to lip; and a shot glass of strong liqueur, to bring a dark shade to his eyes and a rosy blush to his cheeks.

Will barely tasted the meal that was laid out before him. His tongue was thick in his mouth and he drank his wine too quickly. He kept waiting for Hannibal to say something about what he was wearing, what he could clearly smell permeating the room and was probably ruining his enjoyment of the food, but Hannibal avoided saying anything that could even be remotely construed as an acknowledgement.

Eventually, as Hannibal set down dishes of berries that looked like viscera, Will broke.

“Look, do you-- are you going to-- I mean, all this…”

Hannibal resumed his seat at the table and set his spoon to his dish. “Am I going to what, Will?”

“You know,” Will ground out. “You _know_ what I’m talking about.”

“I’m sure I do. But I want to hear you say it.”

Will’s stomach dropped and he felt suddenly very cold. “Don’t make me,” he said, though there was no force behind his words.

Hannibal smiled indulgently, placed a hand atop Will’s fidgeting one, and said, “I promise that if you do, the rest will be so much easier.”

Will struggled to form the words. Hannibal’s hand on his felt like a brand and it made thinking very difficult. Absurdly, his eyes grew hot and he blinked furiously, lest he shame himself further. “I’m wearing it. Perfume. Too much. Because of you.”

The smile that Hannibal gave him this time wasn’t indulgent, smug, secretive, or any of the other discomfiting smiles he usually offered. “It’s a pleasant scent. But I agree, you’ve applied a little much.”

Hannibal seemed to think the matter settled for the moment, and went back to his dessert, but Will couldn’t let it lie. “I can do the perfume. Just about. I can manage that. But the rest of it, the things you wear… it’s not for me.”

“Is it not?” said Hannibal, entirely unbelieving. “And who told you that?”

“I’m not a doll for you to dress up.”

“Certainly not. But you have fine features that would take a little colour very well.” Hannibal paused to down his shot of fiery liqueur, and then went on. “Or layers upon layers of paint and powder, like a bawdy street harlot. If that’s what you prefer.”

Hannibal could feel the excitement running hot through his veins as Will spluttered on a mouthful of food. Will evidently felt that he should put up some kind of fight, unable to allow himself anything until he’d suffered enough for it. This kind of self-flagellation was entirely unnecessary, and something Hannibal would have to make Will unlearn in time, but he was content to play along for now. And besides, it had the added benefit of letting Hannibal know that Will wasn’t solely interested in just testing the water with a little scent, a little colour on his nails. He’d said _the rest of it, the things you wear_ , and that was all Hannibal needed to know. 

***

They were back in Hannibal’s bedroom. Will had assumed they would go to the dressing room like before, but Hannibal instead had directed him over to the leather chairs at the foot of the bed.

“This feels like high school,” said Will. “The cool girl invites the new girl to her house and makes her over. The new girl doesn’t know if she’s making a friend or being sized up for the butcher block.”

“An interesting parallel to draw. Tell me about high school, Will.”

Hannibal had his back to Will, arranging something on a desk over by the far wall. It made it easier for Will to pretend he was talking to himself, slouched down in his seat, head tipped back against grey-blue leather.

“There were a lot of high schools. A lot of boys doing double-takes in the hallways.”

“Raised in boat yards around hard edges and grinding metal. No place in your life to feel soft.”

“ _You’re prettier than my girlfriend_. That’s what they used to say. In bathroom stalls while cutting class, pressed up against the bleachers after football games.”

“They were not wrong.”

“Is Alana your girlfriend?”

“Is Alana a problem?”

Will thought for a minute, and realised thinking was the one thing he didn’t want to do right now, so he just said, “No.”

Hannibal finished his preparations at the desk, and turned to face Will with a small lacquered tray held in his hands. “Good,” he said, gliding serenely over to where Will sat. 

Displayed on the tray was a small selection of forbidden delights, the kind of things that raised goosebumps on Will’s skin and made his breath come fast. There was the green-gold nail polish that had caught his eye during his visit to Hannibal’s dressing room, that he’d touched once, wanting; an engraved silver compact, open just enough to reveal a sliver of the pearly-pink blush within, and a matching brush beside it; a black tube, lacquered in the same style as the tray and containing within a lipstick that was the same deep plummy red as the wine they’d had with dinner; and a necklace, featuring a double row of chain but otherwise unadorned, so fine and slippery it seemed to spill over Will’s fingers like liquid gold.

“Does anything appeal?” Hannibal asked, having leaned down partly to present the tray for Will’s inspection, but mostly so he could place a hand on the back of the chair and grip the leather, to make it shift and pull against Will’s neck.

Every item on the tray was overwhelming in its own particular way. Will wanted to pick up the nail polish, but picking it up would mean having it painted onto his nails and that was too permanent; he had nothing with which to remove it and Hannibal wouldn’t offer.

The necklace was too much. Will recognised it as one that Hannibal favoured when he was dressed in his idea of casual, rolled sleeves and open collar, gold flashing daintily over the dip in his collarbone. Hannibal would insist on draping and clasping the thing around Will’s neck himself, and Will didn’t trust himself not to lean in to the touch and do something stupid.

The compact of blush was beautiful, but pointless. Will was already prone to blushing, in anger or the heat or shame or cold weather or just because. He was almost certain that he was blushing right now, and he was well aware of how it made him look.

Which left the lipstick. It was a line he had never crossed, not fully. There had been opportunities seized when he was young, messy kisses from girls at parties transferring lipstick from mouth to mouth that he had been slow in wiping away. A few times he had got into fights at school, and afterwards in the bathroom, under fluorescent light, he’d dragged his finger through the blood of his split lip and spread it around into a shiny red pout.

Will opened his mouth and found that his throat had dried up. He swallowed once, twice, and because Hannibal followed the path of his adam’s apple up and down with hungry eyes, Will swallowed a third time.

Lipstick was easy enough to wipe off.

“The lipstick,” Will said. “Please.”

How many times had Will provoked this particular smile that Hannibal could feel spreading across his face now? Far more times than any other person he cared to recall. The first time had been in Hannibal’s dining room, Will sweaty and cold and post-seizure. A polar opposite to the current situation, but just as rare a pleasure and no less thrilling in Hannibal’s mind.

Hannibal set the tray down on the quilted velvet bench at the foot of his bed, and picked up the tube of lipstick between thumb and forefinger. Several possibilities branched out before him, each offering their own particular delight. He could hand the lipstick to Will, stand and watch as he applied it himself, cheeks burning red hot and eyes flickering about in shame.

He could plant his feet, pull Will towards him with a harsh hand on his jaw and apply the lipstick roughly, manipulating the flesh and leaving fingerprints in his wake.

He could coax Will through it, whisper soft words into his ear and lay a gentling hand on the nape of his neck, touch lipstick to lip as slowly as he could bear. Maybe Will would cry, silently, two or three salt-rich tears trailing down his cheeks, so unused to this kind of treatment.

Hannibal was discovering more and more, however, that it was usually in his best interest to be direct with Will, so he archived the other scenarios to ponder over at his leisure, and proceeded to straddle the chair and Will’s lap with it. Their bodies slotted together just as perfectly as he knew they would.

Will closed his eyes and made the most pathetic noise that he’d ever let come out of his mouth. He felt held together by a thread, like the weight of Hannibal on his thighs was forming rips all over his skin and he was on the verge of tearing apart. 

Will grazed his fingers against the meat of Hannibal’s legs and held on for dear life.

Smoothing lipstick over Will’s open, pliable mouth was quite possibly one of the most exquisite pleasures Hannibal had ever indulged in. He leaned in far closer than necessary, applied the product far slower than normal, and when he was finished, realised he had neglected to bring tissues for blotting. Will was truly driving him to distraction.

“Open your eyes, Will,” Hannibal said, a new and reckless idea already forming in his mind.

Will opened his eyes slowly, scanning carefully up the entire length of Hannibal’s body until he settled at his collarbone, unable or unwilling to raise his eyes any further. Hannibal touched two fingers to Will’s chin and helped him the rest of the way.

“I need to blot your lipstick,” said Hannibal, and though Will tried to turn his head away at the word, Hannibal brought him back, “but I don’t have any tissue paper.” There were scant inches left between their faces. “Will you help me?”

“Hannibal…” Will breathed, and pressed their lips together. He didn’t try to deepen the kiss, and Hannibal remained similarly chaste, but Will was hyper-aware of every nerve ending in his body, every place where his skin touched Hannibal’s, every slight twitch that felt like the earth itself was moving.

They parted, and Will’s chest heaved. Hannibal himself was slightly shaken; he hadn’t been entirely sure that Will wouldn’t shove him off and make a run for the door, but naturally he let none of his doubt show, and instead leaned back and stretched his arm out to grab the tray that he’d left on the quilted bench.

Will closed his eyes again when he saw what Hannibal was doing, and dropped his head back against the top of the chair.

The compact first, and its accompanying fluffy brush. Hannibal swirled the bristles through the pressed powder and contemplated Will’s face a moment before he applied brush to skin. He was already a very lovely shade of pink, mottling both cheeks and running down his neck, and there was really no need to add to that. But Hannibal wanted Will to feel it, the soft sweep and faint tickle, the fallout clouding in the air and settling back onto his skin.

Will shuddered at the first stroke, but he didn’t protest. His mouth fell open a little further and his grip on Hannibal’s legs tightened. Hannibal continued to swirl the brush over Will’s cheeks long after the powder had been adequately applied. He thought of the first time he had applied make-up to himself, how his skin felt alive with electricity, the brushes sparking with every touch. He wondered if Will felt the same.

As if reading his thoughts, Will tentatively licked his lips and said, “I feel… untethered. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You’re not doing anything, Will. I’m doing it to you.” Hannibal huffed a gentle laugh as he took up the necklace from the tray. “The cool girl making over the new girl.”

“Are you my friend? Or am I being prepared for the block?”

“You tell me.”

Hannibal draped the necklace around Will’s pale throat, and Will leaned hungrily in to the touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [here is the chapter on tumblr](http://zacharybosch.tumblr.com/post/175440759219/le-plaisir-chapter-2) if you fancy giving it a cheeky reblog!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Did he sleep and dream in the chair? Did the low, soothing sound of Hannibal’s voice and the soft touch of his hands carry Will through the veil to rest a spell? It was hard to know, and Will wasn’t completely sure that he wanted to. All he knew for sure was that Hannibal had whispered in his ear like God breathing life into Adam, and Will had opened his eyes to look upon a stranger in the mirror._  
>  \---  
> In which Will and Hannibal have a sleepover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been travelling in gross hot sweaty weather most of the day so this is a bit later than intended, sorry!

Will travelled home that night in a daze. Sitting on his porch in the early hours of the morning, breath clouding in the air, he fingered the chain that still hung at his neck. It felt white hot against his skin, heating his blood.

The next week was like a waking dream. Will moved through familiar spaces that looked wrong, spoke to familiar people who sounded different, carried out familiar actions that felt strange. He viewed everything through a veil, with Hannibal being the one bright point that burned away the fog.

No-one at the Bureau could tell what they’d done. Perhaps they thought Will was acting a little strange, but then he often acted a little strange, and to their eyes Hannibal was exactly the same man he had always been: a little detached, but perfectly amiable and unfailingly polite. If they noted the sudden absence of his favourite double-chain gold necklace, they didn’t consider it worth remarking upon.

At home, Will was disturbed by how little his life had actually changed. He had some half-baked notion that returning to his little house with paint on his lips and gold at his throat would throw everything off-kilter. The dogs would bark at this stranger in their home, the furniture would all be moved around, none of his clothes would fit right.

But everything was the same. There was his bed, tucked into its corner. There were the dogs, snuffling at his fingers or asleep in front of the space heater. His clothes, old and tired as ever, were folded up neatly in the dresser, just where he left them. He’d done things he couldn’t bear to speak of or even think of directly, and yet the world hadn’t come crashing down around his shoulders. It was a strange new feeling that didn’t sit within him entirely well.

The days proceeded much as they had before, though Hannibal now took liberties with Will that he never would’ve dared take before. They now had lunches as well as dinners, which for some reason seemed more intimate to Will; Hannibal had had half the world over for dinner, but he couldn’t recall anyone who had been there for lunch. Hannibal let his emotions shine through a little more when they were alone, though Will wasn’t entirely sure that this wasn’t just another mask, albeit a more readily expressive one. He even began putting his hands on Will’s body when they were at the Bureau; guiding hands on the small of his back that lingered a touch too long, proprietary holds on wrists and shoulders. 

Hannibal himself was possessed of a joie de vivre that he hadn’t truly felt in a long time. Plenty of things amused him, and some even excited him, but watching Will move through the world now, seeing the truth of him bubbling just beneath the surface, and the terror and thrill that it provoked in Will, was to Hannibal an absolutely singular experience.

He enjoyed immensely the idea that on some level, Will must be deathly frightened of the fact that Hannibal could, at any moment, out him. Not that Hannibal ever would; what had begun to grow between them was far too lovely to be sullied by the ugly eyes of others, but Will’s fear had always been an enticing aspect of his personality and Hannibal was never one to deny himself a pleasure.

It was to this end that Hannibal decided to call Will when he knew Will would be in the middle of a lecture.

As expected, Will didn’t pick up. Hannibal hung up before it went to voicemail, quietly content in the knowledge that Will would check his phone after class, see the missed call with no explanatory voicemail or text message, and immediately call back. Hannibal wouldn’t see the needy little shake in Will’s fingers, but it was enough to know that it would be there.

Hannibal let his phone ring a little before picking up. “Hello?”

“Hi. It’s me.”

“Hello Will,” Hannibal said, almost purring.

“You, uh… you called me?”

“I did.”

Sometimes, having a conversation with Hannibal Lecter was like struggling through quicksand. Will sighed. “Why did you call me? You know I’m in classes all day today.”

Hannibal paused for a second in thought. Why had he called Will? To say he just wanted to hear his voice and play with him a little would be largely true, but would also be something that Hannibal was in no mood to admit. “I called to extend an invitation for dinner tonight.”

“You couldn’t wait until I’d finished for the day? Or sent a text? You never leave unanswered calls without an explanation. I thought…” Will trailed off, words suddenly dying in his mouth.

“What did you think, Will?”

“I don’t… I don’t know. Something stupid.” Will didn’t try to elaborate further, and Hannibal offered nothing to fill the silence stretching between them. “So you want me to come round.”

“You don’t sound so enthused by the idea. You are allowed to say no.”

“No, no, I want to. I’ll come,” Will said hastily, sounding far too shrill for his liking. “Just… please don’t make me sit through dinner again.”

“You don’t like my cooking?” Hannibal asked, feigning hurt.

“You don’t believe that for one second. I like your cooking very much. But I don’t like sitting there while you watch me squirm.”

“It is very poor manners on my part,” Hannibal acknowledged. “Very well. I shall behave myself, and not serve dinner.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Will hissed.

“Like what?”

“Like you have no intention of behaving yourself,” Will said, half exasperated and half excited. “Like this is some… flirtatious game.”

“Isn’t it?”

Will was fully prepared to say _No, it certainly isn’t_ , but somehow the words never quite materialised. Instead, he breathed a little too loudly into the phone and said, “So what time do you want me?”

Instead of saying _All of the time, Will_ , Hannibal said, “Would ten o’clock suit you?” 

“That seems a little late.”

“I would advise arranging for someone to look in on the dogs.” Before Will could mount a protest, Hannibal continued. “And I will prepare a guest room for your own use.”

“I-- You can’t just assume--”

“We both know that you’re going to let me assume whatever I want, Will,” Hannibal murmured, “so just say yes.”

Will’s swallow was audible. “Yes,” he said. 

***

True to his word, Hannibal did not serve dinner. When Will arrived, he was furnished with a glass of wine and then taken straight upstairs to the dressing room. It was just as Will remembered it: a warm beating heart cradled in the centre of the house, unspoiled by light or time or any other cares of the outside world. The dressing table shone like a beacon, and Hannibal glowed beside it. He pulled out a chair, upholstered in the same style as the quilted bench at the foot of his bed, and waited patiently for Will to come and sit. It made Will feel like a dog that had learned a particularly clever trick, but that wasn’t enough to stop him.

The dressing table itself offered up an abundance of promises. Will looked at his reflection in the carved tri-fold mirror and saw his seventeen-year-old self staring back, tumbling curls crushed by greasy baseball caps, delicate skin chafed by whipping salt winds. He tried to imagine what it would’ve been like had he been able to stay at one school for longer than a year, had Hannibal been there with him, and found that it was easy. In the mirror, the fine lines of Hannibal’s face melted away, and the silver streak in his hair became saturated with colour. He was taught and severe and beautiful, remote and untouchable, but he had a warm eye for Will alone, and no-one would’ve bullied him.

Hannibal picked up something round and golden from the table, and set to work.

Marking the passage of time in the dressing room was difficult. There were no windows, no clocks, and Hannibal had removed the watch from Will’s wrist at some point during his ministrations. It seemed to Will as though he had been there for a week, a month, a year. People had been born and died, empires had risen and fallen, and all the while he was sat there in Hannibal’s chair, smoke on his eyes, blood on his lips.

Did he sleep and dream in the chair? Did the low, soothing sound of Hannibal’s voice and the soft touch of his hands carry Will through the veil to rest a spell? It was hard to know, and Will wasn’t completely sure that he wanted to. All he knew for sure was that Hannibal had whispered in his ear like God breathing life into Adam, and Will had opened his eyes to look upon a stranger in the mirror. The dark circles under his eyes had vanished, the mottled pink of his bitten lips was smoothed over with red, and the smudge of his eyebrows had become sharp and dark. He wanted to touch his face, but was afraid that if he did, everything would crumble away into his hands. His nails had been painted too, with the green-gold polish that had drawn Will’s covetous eyes all those weeks ago. It looked like what Will imagined the sunlight must look like when viewed from the bottom of a river, coming in shards through the reeds. 

Hannibal remained standing behind the chair, staring at Will staring at himself in the mirror, drinking in the experience and enshrining it within his memory palace. He reached his arms around either side of Will’s neck, and began to carefully undo the buttons of Will’s shirt.

“What are you doing?” Will asked, breathless, watching Hannibal’s fingers slowly work their way down his shirt and making no move to stop them.

“I thought you might appreciate something a little finer,” Hannibal said. He pulled the tails of Will’s shirt from beneath the waistband of his trousers, and undid the final button. A gentle hand on the back of Will’s neck pushed him forward, and warm fingers skimmed beneath the fabric at his shoulders. Hannibal didn’t keep his nails very long, but they were long enough to just peek over the tops of his fingers and scrape softly against Will’s skin.

In place of the shirt, Hannibal draped around Will’s shoulders a long, tasselled silk shawl. The colour shifted in the light from plummy red to burnt orange to pure gold, and the slide of fabric against Will’s bare skin raised goosebumps along his arms.

Hannibal did not remove this particular shawl from its tissue paper wrappings very often. The colour made him think of firelight flickering against dark temple walls, trembling supplicants kneeling at the feet of some divine creature who had deigned to walk the earth for a night. It used to be himself he saw as the divine, washed and painted and draped in silks, but now he gazed up from below and it was Will who cast disdainful eyes out over the devotees at his feet.

In Hannibal’s opinion, it would be an eminently satisfactory evening if they were just to remain here, staring at each other in the mirror. He hadn’t removed his hands from Will’s shoulders after placing the shawl there, and he’d even been stroking a thumb up and down the nape of Will’s neck and not been admonished for it, but there was one final act to debut this evening.

“Please wait here, Will. I’ll be just a moment.”

Will’s neck and shoulders felt very cold in the wake of Hannibal’s departure. He didn’t _want_ to think of Hannibal as the sun, and himself as the moon basking in his warmth and light, but it was the image that came to mind, almost as if Hannibal had planted it there himself.

He could hear what sounded like furniture being shunted about in the bedroom, and the clink of plates and glasses. It was faintly amusing to imagine Hannibal doing something as mundane as rearranging furniture, getting sweaty and puffed out and having to sit down for a minute to have a break.

Fifteen interminable minutes later, after Will had considered storming into the bedroom and insisting Hannibal let him help a handful of times, or pulling his shirt on and leaving at least half a dozen times, Hannibal came back into the dressing room and bid Will follow him.

The leather club chairs where Hannibal had so boldly straddled Will’s lap and put all manner of things on him were no longer there. In their place, highlighted by a cheerfully burning fire in the grey stone fireplace, was what looked suspiciously like a pic-nic.

“I thought I said no dinner?”

“This isn’t dinner,” Hannibal said simply. “It’s certainly well past an acceptable dinner time.”

Will fished out his watch from where he’d shoved it in his trouser pocket and saw that it was nearly midnight. He looked again at the food. It was a spread of snacking foods; tiny biscuits, squares of bread with assorted toppings, finger bowls of crystallised fruit, carefully decorated chocolates, and the familiar carafe of dark wine. “It’s a midnight feast,” he said, slightly disbelieving, although why anything about Hannibal should continue to incite disbelief was beyond him. The man was already entirely unbelievable.

“I hear this is a customary practice for sleepovers.”

“I wouldn’t know. Didn’t get invited to many as a kid.”

“It’s never too late to learn.” Hannibal gestured with a sweeping arm at a collection of floor pillows. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

Sitting on the floor couldn’t be good for Hannibal’s back even with the abundance of pillows, and it certainly wouldn’t be good for Will’s, but it was hard to protest. Will didn’t have much fight left in him when it came to Hannibal and the things that Hannibal wanted him to do. He got down on his knees and arranged himself rather awkwardly on the pillows, tugging at the shawl every time it slipped to reveal a bare shoulder, unsure whether to sit upright or recline back on one arm, as Hannibal did.

They ate quietly, poured wine for each other without asking. The fire crackled and spat, warming their skin and lighting the planes of their bodies against the darkness that enveloped the rest of the room. Will shifted about restlessly, unable to get comfortable, and eventually gave up and just lay back against the pillows. He knew what it looked like, and decided he was fine with that. They’d already established that Hannibal was going to assume whatever he wanted, and that Will was going to let him.

Hannibal took full advantage, and smoothly rearranged himself so he was scant inches from Will, propped up on his elbow so as to be almost looming over him. In the firelight Will looked as though he were made from gold, as if Hannibal were Midas and had dared touch the thing he loved most. He wanted to place a possessive hand on Will’s bare chest and feel the tension build within him, rub the silk shawl over his skin until he began to writhe. 

“Tell me more about high school,” Hannibal said instead, taking a single piece of crystallised fruit from the bowl and bringing it to Will’s lips as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Will took the fruit delicately between his teeth, careful not to let his lips touch Hannibal’s fingers. He chewed for longer than necessary, and was slow in swallowing. “What do you want to know?”

“These boys who consorted with you behind the bleachers.”

“What about them?”

“Did they know who you were?”

“They didn’t care to. All I had to do was knock my cap off, tousle my hair. I looked the part and that was good enough.” Will could see their reflections in the angled mirror above the fireplace. He certainly looked the part tonight, and he committed the image to memory. “They got a kick out of it.”

Hannibal brought another piece of fruit to Will’s lips. “A dirty little secret.”

“Something like that.”

“Did they ever kiss you?” Hannibal asked, fingers still lingering around Will’s mouth. 

“No.”

“Then they were fools.”

Will could feel Hannibal’s body very close to his own, radiating heat. It would be a simple thing to turn his head, meet Hannibal’s gaze beneath the fan of his lashes, and draw him in. In that moment it was difficult to understand who was really pulling who, but the space between their faces grew smaller, and Hannibal’s heart slowed while Will’s began to race, and then they were kissing as if they had never done anything else in their lives but lie there in front of the fire and kiss each other.

Hannibal curled his hand around to cup the side of Will’s neck, thumb stroking against his jaw and fingers twining into his hair. What had he done in some past life to be so blessed in this one, with a creature so endlessly fascinating and infuriating, his equal in horror and beauty, his opposite to torment and adore?

How different it was to the experiences of Will’s youth, where everything had been rushed and sloppy, and an itch had been scratched but not to his satisfaction or happiness. Those rough boys were never what he really wanted, but they had been what he could get, and now Hannibal was giving him so precisely what he wanted that he was almost frightened of it. He could accept it in fits and starts, like waves crashing against the shore only to pull away again. 

Where their first kiss had been chaste, this one was not. Will gripped the shawl between his hands so that he wouldn’t do anything else with them, and was on the verge of making another of his pathetic little noises before he managed to break away. “It’s easy to be here right now. But it’s going to be hard when I leave, and it’ll be hard to come back,” Will whispered. “I don’t know if I’ll manage it.”

“Leaving, or coming back?”

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [here is the chapter on tumblr](http://zacharybosch.tumblr.com/post/175683534954/le-plaisir-chapter-3), cheeky reblogs always appreciated o3o


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He remembered being hand fed, and he remembered kissing, and he remembered Hannibal running the shawl back and forth over his skin, silk pooling like liquid beneath his body. He looked at the mirror over the fireplace and could see their reflections burned into it, gold-coloured ghosts melting into each other in the firelight._  
>  \---  
> Will decides he would like to keep Hannibal's shawl, thank you very much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is it! the final chapter! thank you everyone who has reblogged and commented and left kudos, this is the longest thing i've ever written and i'm very pleased with myself and the reaction its had. i hope you all enjoyed it as much as i enjoyed imagining it (but did not enjoy writing it. writing is pain and suffering.)
> 
> as an extra special treat there is also ART!! created by the one and only [TheSeaVoices](https://theseavoices.tumblr.com)!!

Will woke in the middle of the night with an uncomfortable ache in his neck. The fire had burned down to glowing embers, and Hannibal was no longer with him in the mound of pillows on the floor. Pulling the shawl more closely around his shoulders to stave off the chill, he got unsteadily to his feet and could just make out the outline of Hannibal asleep in his bed. Will felt the tenderness of the image like a stab in his gut, and tore his eyes away.

He remembered being hand fed, and he remembered kissing, and he remembered Hannibal running the shawl back and forth over his skin, silk pooling like liquid beneath his body. He looked at the mirror over the fireplace and could see their reflections burned into it, gold-coloured ghosts melting into each other in the firelight.

Leaving the room quietly, Will groped his way along the hallway until he found what he hoped was a bathroom. Inside, the light shone painfully into his eyes and highlighted every harsh plane of his face, all the magic that Hannibal had instilled burned away in an instant. He grabbed some tissues and tried to wipe some of the stuff off of his face to no avail; whatever make-up Hannibal used, it was of an exceedingly high quality and wouldn’t budge.

It was fine, he had lots of tough soap at home, he could scrub clean there. He just needed to leave.

Too late, Will realised that his shirt was still in the dressing room. To get there, he’d have to go through the bedroom. If he went back into the bedroom, he would see Hannibal asleep in bed. If he saw Hannibal asleep in bed again, the last shred of his already very weak willpower would float away, and he would crawl beneath the sheets and fit his cold body around Hannibal’s warm one.

And then Hannibal would wake, and then look at Will with shadowy eyes, and then reach out his hand, and then, and then.

Will shut off the bathroom light and made his way downstairs.

The car was freezing cold. It was way too early to be up and about; a few stars were still winking in the sky, and the sun had barely begun to think about rising. Hannibal’s house loomed in the darkness behind him, and it took every bit of inner strength Will could muster to not go running back inside. He fired up the engine and drove away.

The drive back to Wolf Trap became harder the further he got, as though he and Hannibal were bound together by elastic and he was stretching it to its limit. At any moment it could snap, or pull Will hurtling back along the highway and into Hannibal’s arms. But in the end it neither snapped nor pulled him back, and he made it home feeling strained and on the verge of exhaustion. The dogs greeted him sleepily when he clattered in through the front door, and with no energy left to attempt washing his face he collapsed into bed, still wrapped in Hannibal’s shawl. Will slept, and did not dream.

There was no voicemail, no text from Hannibal when Will woke up, and nothing arrived throughout the rest of the day. He started to wonder if he’d really crossed a line this time, scuttling away in the night like a thief. Quite literally a thief, as he’d taken Hannibal’s silk shawl with him, and seeing it now crumpled up with the sheets on his bed, Will had no desire to give it back.

He skulked about the house all day, moving restlessly from room to room, like a ghost searching for its unfinished business. He just needed some direction, some word from Hannibal, and then he would know what to do.

Hannibal himself had been quite unsurprised to discover that Will had left. It had always been a little much to imagine that he would allow himself to spend the entire night, but that didn’t stop the creeping disappointment that Hannibal steadfastly refused to acknowledge as he got up to begin his day. A shower first, and then perhaps some eggs florentine for breakfast.

Rounding the end of the bed to survey the remnants of last night’s activities, Hannibal saw the gentle indentations Will had left on the pillows, half-empty bowls of food now gone stale, and the distinct lack of his silk shawl. He checked the dressing room, and it wasn’t there either, though Will’s shirt remained hanging off the back of the chair at the dressing table.

This presented Hannibal with several possible explanations. The first was that their sleepover had achieved nothing, and Will was still so desperate to escape that he fled the house without even thinking about what he was wearing. Will was many things, but thoughtless was not one of them. If he truly wanted to get away he would’ve left nothing behind, no parting gift.

The second explanation was that Will had taken Hannibal’s shawl just to irritate him. Which was entirely plausible, but the effect was considerably lessened by the fact that Will had left his own shirt here, like a token or offering or breadcrumb trail. 

The third explanation was that Will had got stuck in his head again, left the room to get some space, remembered he needed his shirt, but didn’t dare go back in to fetch it in case… what? Hannibal stood in the dressing room doorway and looked back out over his room, considering, and then it clicked. In case Will came back in here, saw Hannibal asleep in bed, and wanted to crawl in beside him. So he left, wrapped in the shawl that he hadn’t considered needed to be left behind, given that having a piece of Hannibal wrapped around his body felt natural and right.

Perhaps the final part of that thought was an embellishment on Hannibal’s part, but the bulk of it struck him as true, and so it was decided that he would pay Will a visit that evening.

***

The early winter sunset cast golden rays through the trees as Hannibal’s car crept up the driveway to Will’s house, crunching quietly against the gravel. Will was sitting on his porch wrapped up in a blanket and, Hannibal noted with no small degree of pleasure, he was still wearing the make-up, albeit rather more smudged and faded than it was the previous evening. He got out of the car, and Will stood up.

“Come in,” Will said, and turned to enter the house.

Hannibal followed behind at a polite distance. Upon entering the house, he felt Will’s scent settle over him and took a savouring breath inwards. He remained standing just inside the door, haloed by the last of the light, while Will moved further into the shadows of the room.

“You left this in my dressing room,” Hannibal said, referring to the shirt that he held folded in his hands, but making no move to offer it back. Hannibal had made up his face in a manner that Will had never seen before. Normally he was subtle, using the kind of neutral lipsticks and eyeshadows that were meant to blend seamlessly with the natural colours of the face. But perhaps that was just a professional look, and it stung Will a little to think that there was yet another version of Hannibal that was hidden from him.

Now, however, Hannibal was wearing a red lipstick of such violent intensity that Will felt cut open just by looking at it. It made his mouth, already impossibly distracting, look even fuller, softer, crueler.

“I… You didn’t have to come all the way out here. I could’ve picked it up from you.”

“Perhaps I wanted to come. Perhaps I wanted to see what was so important here that it pulled you away from me so prematurely.” Hannibal eyed the shawl on Will’s bed. “And perhaps I wanted to collect my own stolen property, since you’ve made no mention of returning it to me.” 

Hannibal still didn’t offer Will’s shirt back to him, and Will didn’t offer the shawl either. 

“Well, I want to keep it. The shawl. I like it,” Will said, with far more conviction than he felt. “You can have my shirt.”

“A fair trade, is it? A little piece of me, in exchange for a little piece of you.”

“Why did you actually come here?”

“I came here to tell you that I understand why you left,” Hannibal said, taking a first slow step towards Will. “You’re used to being a temporary novelty, easily indulged and easily thrown away, and against your better judgement you’ve convinced yourself that this poor treatment is what you want.” He continued to approach, panther-like, careful treads making no sound against the floorboards. “But what you really want is to be important to me. You want me, and you want me to want you back just as fiercely.” Hannibal came to a stop, chest-to-chest with Will. He leant in and, so gently as to be barely touching, brushed his nose against Will’s temple, sampling the scent. “You want me to want you enough to drag you kicking and screaming into the sunlight,” he whispered against Will’s skin. “To make you do the things you always wanted but never dared. Anything less would make you crawl with shame.”

Will felt faint, the force of what Hannibal had said thrumming through his body and threatening to crumple him to the floor. He felt hot all over, and began to wobble just a little.

Hannibal just wrapped a strong arm around Will’s waist, and carried on. “Do you know that I would burn this world down for you? If you would but ask.”

“I’m not… I can’t be that man for you…”

“You could. You can. You will.”

“Okay,” Will said, a weak sound that barely made it past his lips. And then, a little stronger, “Yeah. Okay.”

Hannibal let Will’s old shirt fall from his hand, and it hit the floor with a soft _thwack_. He brought both hands up to thread through Will’s hair and just luxuriated in the soft feel of it, the gentle tug and spring back of curls, the faint smell of woodsmoke that still lingered from the night before. Will leaned in to every touch, every brush of fingers against goose-pimpled skin.

Will caught one of Hannibal’s hands in his own and pulled him towards the larger of his ratty old armchairs, it being fractionally closer than the bed and his only immediate thought being to get them somewhere softer than the floor. They’d barely sat down before Hannibal draped himself half over Will in that all-too-proprietary way that Will had come to expect, kissing him slowly and deeply. He slipped open three buttons on Will’s shirt and snaked his hand inside, thumbing lazily at his nipple. Will felt liquid, mouth falling open against Hannibal’s on small sounds of pleasure, tiny breaths of _oh, oh,_ that Hannibal kissed away as soon as they emerged. 

They kissed for long minutes, barely breaking away for breath, and then Hannibal pulled Will’s trousers open and down only so far as necessary for him to get his hand in, bypassed his dick entirely and pressed one slick finger between his cheeks, stroking tight little circles as he might stroke a woman. 

“Do you like it when I finger you, Will?” he asked, all hooded eyes and swollen, painted lips.

Will looked down at the space where Hannibal’s hand disappeared below his waistband. He couldn’t see much, just the flex of his wrist and the fabric of his shirtsleeve wrinkling and creasing against his forearm, but he shoved his own hand down there to cover Hannibal’s and urge him on. “Yes,” he breathed, “I like it.”

“Tell me to slip my fingers inside you.”

Pink bloomed over Will’s cheeks and neck, and he screwed his eyes shut. “I-- I can’t…” 

“Can’t?” Hannibal asked, withdrawing his fingers slowly from where they had been on the verge of breaching, “or won’t?”

Will took two, three huge lungfuls of air, screwed his hands tightly into Hannibal’s hair, and said, “Slip your fingers inside me. Do it, do it.”

Hannibal pulled his hand all the way out of Will’s underwear, but only so he could spit on his fingers. His nails were painted a glossy red, plum-dark and rich like blood, made all the more vivid by the saliva dripping down over them. His push inside was relentless and unyielding, rock steady despite how Will squirmed and shook in his seat. Will thought Hannibal would tease, fluttering touches and careful breaches, make him sob and beg before Will could finally have what he wanted.

But Hannibal had been making him beg this whole time, Will realised. From the first confused flicker of interest weeks ago, Hannibal had been making Will beg for it. 

Will began to roll his hips, working himself against Hannibal’s touch, meeting every forceful, wet thrust. The zipper of Will’s trousers bit into the back of Hannibal’s wrist but he paid it no mind; the earth could shake and the house fall down around them, and he would still be entirely focused on the wet slide of Will’s lips, the heat of his body, the sweet clench of him. 

Hannibal pressed a third finger inside, and began to focus all his attention against that spot inside that made Will’s eyes roll back in his head and his voice break into pieces in his throat. He took it all so beautifully, and when Will’s body started to tense up and he tried to say something that might’ve been a warning, Hannibal just pushed harder and kissed hotter and then Will was coming all over his stomach and the ends of his shirt, moaning into Hannibal’s mouth and grasping at his body.

They moved to the bed after that, Will boneless and still breathing hard. He thought he knew what Hannibal would want now, and flopped onto his stomach while attempting to pull his trousers the rest of the way down, but Hannibal’s iron grip on his arm stopped Will in his tracks.

“Get up,” Hannibal said, “and then take the rest of your clothes off.”

As Will did so, Hannibal lay back on the bed and watched. Will was flushed all over, turning red like a berry ripening in the sun, and so smoothly sculpted that Hannibal wanted to weep. His thighs in particular were thick and glorious, flexing deliciously with every slight movement and Hannibal wanted nothing more in that moment than to have them wrapped around his shoulders. He palmed himself through his trousers, uncaring of the stains that were no doubt forming and ruining the expensive fabric.

Fully naked, Will got back onto the bed and was immediately pulled onto Hannibal’s lap, straddling his hips. He wasn’t hard again yet, but he could feel the blood already trying to make its way back, and Hannibal’s hands running up and down his thighs certainly helped speed it along.

Hannibal smoothed one hand up Will’s hip and across his chest, over his collarbone and neck until he could press his fingers against Will’s lips and slip a thumb inside his mouth. Will didn’t suck, but held it loosely between his teeth, rolling his tongue around it until saliva began to drip over the remnants of his smudged lipstick.

And then it happened all at once: Hannibal pulled Will flush against him, and Will scrabbled to divest Hannibal of his clothes, and they became tangled in the fiery silk shawl that had been forgotten amongst Will’s sheets, and all the while they kissed and kissed like they might die if they stopped. Hannibal entered Will again, briefly, three or four hard thrusts that slammed their hips together and felt so good that Hannibal thought he might burst out of his skin. But then he pulled Will up and off, and urged him to turn around.

“Put your knees up here, by my head,” Hannibal said, and Will couldn’t quite believe that he was really about to do _this_. The position made him feel debauched, knees spread and exposing his most tender parts, spine bent in an exaggerated curve and head dropped between the peaks of his shoulder blades. He was already fully hard again, faster than he’d thought possible at his age.

“I can’t remember the last time I was this fucking hard,” he said against the skin of Hannibal’s inner thigh, and then proceeded to let out a needy moan as Hannibal took the length of him into his mouth.

Will arched his back up enough so that he could look down between their bodies and see Hannibal’s neck and jaw, bright red lips leaking spit and wrapped lusciously around his cock. He gave an experimental thrust of his hips, and when Hannibal dug his fingers into the meat of Will’s ass and swallowed him down deeper, Will did it again, harder. When he regained enough presence of mind, the suction Hannibal was applying to him liable to send him into a coma if he wasn’t careful, Will took Hannibal’s cock in his hand and let a generous trail of spit fall down from his lips and onto the head. He spread it around with his tongue, then spat again, and again, until Hannibal’s dick was slippery and twitching. Only then did Will take him in fully, swirling his tongue around the rigid flesh and sucking hard.

Their desire bled into and fed each other, every suck and stroke merging and escalating until they felt that they were one body, one mind experiencing one singular, expansive, overwhelming wave of pleasure.

Hannibal came first, filling Will’s mouth as he moaned and gasped around his dick. Will swallowed what he could, the rest dripping from his lips onto Hannibal’s cock, and down over his balls. Hannibal was painfully sensitive, and if Will stayed where he was, he would want Will to carry on sucking him until he was out of his mind. So Hannibal pushed at Will’s legs until he moved off and twisted back around so as to be face-to-face, and then wrapped his own legs around Will’s waist and said, “Fuck me, Will.”

Will looked as though he was about to come then and there. He was no stranger to the word _fuck_ , having had it directed towards him liberally and having shot it back out in turn, but in Hannibal’s mouth, pushed out between those sinful red lips, the word sounded decadent and filthy, a rare and forbidden delicacy.

He lined himself up at Hannibal’s entrance, already slick with all the spit and come that had dripped down from Will’s mouth. The first push in was unbearably slow, seeming to take hours until he was fully seated and both of them were panting into each other’s mouths, Hannibal’s legs gone slack at Will’s sides. But then Will grabbed Hannibal’s thigh and held it tight up against his hip, and began to move.

It wouldn’t take long, that much was obvious. Even at a sedate pace, Will could already feel the liquid heat pooling in his gut, spreading slowly through his body. He sped up, pulling almost entirely all the way out before ramming back in again, the sound of their bodies slapping together echoing through the house. Hannibal panted beneath him, covered in a sheen of sweat and not letting up even for a moment, meeting every one of Will’s thrusts with a forceful push of hips, taking Will as deep as he could manage.

Will had been here before, in a few different permutations that were nothing like what was happening now. On his back, or face planted in the pillows, and whoever he was fucking playing the aggressor because that’s what Will thought he should want. They’d keep their eyes closed, heads turned away. Fuck, but don’t look at yourself fucking. Seeing it makes it real. Stick it in him or let him stick it in you and just close your eyes and _don’t look_.

Being with Hannibal was so unutterably unlike anything Will had experienced before. He was both powerful and delicate, hard and yielding, soft and relentless. It was every contradiction that Will had yearned for, everything he wanted to have and to be and to possess for himself.

Will sank his teeth into the slick flesh of Hannibal’s shoulder, and came hard, hard enough that he thought he might rip through Hannibal’s body and shatter it into a thousand tiny pieces.

And then there was only quiet, punctuated by shaky breaths and the slight rustle of sheets. Neither Will nor Hannibal let go, and neither ever wanted to. Perhaps they would stay just like this, to be found months or years later, flesh melted into flesh and bones hopelessly intermingled.

Still seated deep inside Hannibal’s body, Will pressed his lips like a bruise against Hannibal’s jaw and said, “Just like this. Keep me like this. Please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [here is the chapter on tumblr](http://zacharybosch.tumblr.com/post/175913365054/le-plaisir-chapter-4) if you'd like to give it a cheeky reblog o3o
> 
> [here is a separate tumblr post with TheSeaVoices wonderful art](https://theseavoices.tumblr.com/post/175913481741/to-illustrate-a-wonderfully-written-luxurious-fic), you should definitely give this the cheekiest of reblogs

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Illustration For Le Plaisir](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15306117) by [TheSeaVoices](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSeaVoices/pseuds/TheSeaVoices)




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